True "deference" is not about lowering yourself.
It is about finding the one crack the other person cannot live without—
and making what you offer the only straw they can still grasp.
Dusk.
The Outer Sect's abandoned Listening Rain Pavilion.
Mountain wind poured through the broken windows, shaking loose years of dust from the beams above. No one had cleaned this place in ages—not even the errand boys from the Steward Hall. And yet, this was where Jiang Muchen had chosen to meet her.
He stood beneath a leaking eave, back straight, a jade-green flute slung across his shoulder.
The moment dusk struck—
The wind stopped.
Not naturally.
An extreme cold spread across a ten-zhang radius, freezing even the flow of air itself. Goosebumps rose on Jiang Muchen's exposed hands as his breath turned to white mist before his eyes.
Then—she arrived.
No footsteps.
No ripple of spiritual energy.
It was as if moonlight itself had slipped free from the clouds and taken human form.
Silver hair stirred gently in the night, each strand gleaming with crystalline frost. An ice-blue gown brushed the ground, and wherever it passed, a thin layer of frost bloomed beneath her steps.
Murong Xueli halted three zhang outside the pavilion.
When her gaze met Jiang Muchen's, he felt his blood slow by half a beat.
Nascent Soul pressure.
Even suppressed to a fraction, it was enough to make a Qi Refining cultivator's legs give out. Jiang Muchen drew a slow breath—not through his nose, but deep from the chest, drawing on the grit hammered into him during that month in Blackwind Cavern.
Then he bowed.
Deeply.
So low his posture nearly sank into the dust.
"Outer Sect disciple Jiang Muchen," he said steadily, with just the right tremor,
"pays respects to Elder Murong."
Exactly the fear a low-level cultivator should show.
Murong Xueli did not respond.
She stepped into the pavilion, icy eyes sweeping over him—not like she was looking at a person, but like she was inspecting an artifact. Material. Wear. Hidden fractures.
Three breaths.
Five.
Just as cold sweat began to bead along Jiang Muchen's spine, she spoke—her voice as distant as wind atop a snowbound peak.
"Qi Refining, fourth layer. Jade flute. A chance encounter in Qingming Herb Valley. One month in Blackwind Cavern—alive—and returned with a team."
Each sentence pressed heavier than the last.
She had investigated him.
Thoroughly.
"This disciple was fortunate," Jiang Muchen replied, still bent low.
"Fortunate?" she echoed, emotionless.
"Han Lin claims you have a way to resolve my father's predicament."
"I would never dare say resolve," Jiang Muchen finally raised his head, wearing the smile he had practiced countless times by the creek—honest, awkward, unmistakably low-born.
"Only… that I might offer a small line of thought."
"Speak."
Jiang Muchen produced a jade slip and offered it with both hands.
It was cheap white jade, its edges worn. As Murong Xueli accepted it, frost crept across its surface from her fingertips.
"Notes on Refining the Ice-Soul Stabilizing Pill," Jiang Muchen recited calmly.
"Compiled from miscellaneous texts in the library. Hardly worth mentioning. But one point may be of use: if the Nine-Turn Soul-Returning Flower is unavailable, it may be substituted with Yin-Soul Wood from Nether Ghost Manor and Soul-Anchoring Grass from Qingming Herb Valley, refined under Frostglow Sword's ice-aligned sword qi. The resulting efficacy should reach seventy percent."
He said it lightly.
Murong Xueli's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
Her divine sense entered the jade slip.
Three breaths later, she looked up.
For the first time, something shifted in her ice-blue eyes—not warmth, but sharp focus.
"Yin-Soul Wood. Soul-Anchoring Grass. Sword-qi tempering."
Her gaze locked onto him.
"Who taught you this?"
"No one," Jiang Muchen scratched his head, embarrassed.
"I read too many odd books. Collected Deviant Alchemy Recipes mentioned a similar idea. I thought—since Elder's Frostglow Sword is a supreme ice weapon—perhaps sword qi could stimulate the yin-cold properties of Yin-Soul Wood, compensating for the missing soul-nourishing effect."
He lowered his voice.
"Of course, it may be foolish speculation."
"Foolish?" Murong Xueli interrupted.
She laughed.
Not warmly—but like a glacier cracking, revealing colder depths beneath.
"You expect me to believe that an outer disciple at Qi Refining Fourth Layer devised a solution three fourth-rank alchemists of the Frostice Family could not?"
She stepped closer. The cold pressed like a physical wall.
"Jiang Muchen—do you think I'm a child?"
The pressure surged.
Breathing grew difficult.
And then—
Thud.
Jiang Muchen dropped to his knees.
Clean. Sharp. So forceful the stone tiles echoed.
Even Murong Xueli paused.
"I dare not deceive Elder," Jiang Muchen looked up, eyes already glistening—Blackwind Cavern had taught him well.
"I… have selfish motives."
"Speak."
"I was born poor. Orphaned young. Mocked and overlooked within Crimson Pavilion." His voice cracked perfectly.
"A month ago in Blackwind Cavern, poison miasma nearly killed me. Steward Han Lin passed by and gave me Anti-Miasma Pills—saving my life!"
He bowed until his forehead struck stone.
"Steward Han saved me! I heard he faces disaster over the pill matter—perhaps even death upon return. I am insignificant, but I thought… if I could repay his kindness in any way…"
Tears fell, freezing into tiny beads upon the stone.
Murong Xueli watched in silence.
She didn't believe him.
Han Lin was cautious to the point of cowardice—he wouldn't save a random outer disciple.
But that didn't matter.
What mattered was how cleanly the boy knelt.
No pride. No dignity. Only repayment.
In a cultivation world built on calculation, that was rare.
And more importantly—the method worked.
Seventy percent efficacy was enough to stabilize her father's mind through the heart-demon crisis.
What the boy truly wanted… didn't matter.
The Frostice Family could afford the price.
"Get up," she said.
Jiang Muchen didn't move.
"I said—get up."
He rose at once, brushing dust from his knees, tears still clinging to his lashes, smiling sheepishly.
"Forgive this disciple's disgrace."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward the darkness beyond the pavilion.
"Yin-Soul Wood lies within Nether Ghost Manor. How do you intend to obtain it?"
"I… may have a way."
He produced the Nether Bone Fragment.
The moment it appeared, Murong Xueli's eyes sharpened.
Pure ghost-path aura—this wasn't a mere token. It carried a mark.
"This is…"
"I don't know its origin," Jiang Muchen replied honestly enough.
"I found it in Blackwind Cavern. With it, Nether Ghost formations don't seem to target me."
She studied both bone and boy.
Then—
"Come with me."
"Elder?"
"Do not ask."
Frostglow Sword slid three inches from its sheath.
Cold sword qi exploded outward, swallowing the pavilion whole. Before Jiang Muchen could react, he was swept skyward, the mountain gate of Crimson Pavilion shrinking rapidly below.
In a bamboo grove a hundred zhang away, Wang Duobao and Lu Hanshan stared.
"Did… Brother Chen get taken?" Lu Hanshan muttered.
Wang Duobao wiped his brow, then grinned.
"Taken? Have you ever seen kidnapping done with such gentle sword qi? That's an invitation. Brother Chen's 'deference' even melts glaciers."
High above.
Ice-blue swordlight cut through the night toward Guest Peak. Jiang Muchen felt the cold beside him—not killing intent, but the ancient chill of a thousand-year glacier.
Murong Xueli flew three feet away. Her silver hair brushed his cheek, carrying the faint scent of cold plum—sharp, awakening.
"Elder, we're—"
"Going to see Han Lin," she replied.
"Your method needs verification. If it works…"
Her eyes flicked to him.
"What you want—I can give."
His heart skipped. His voice stayed timid.
"This disciple wouldn't dare—"
"Enough," she cut him off, a faint curve at her lips—this time, a real smile, though still cold.
"I know your type. Shameless. Unconcerned with dignity. Will use any means to reach your goal."
She looked ahead.
"I don't dislike that. In this world, those who cling to pride die early."
Jiang Muchen stayed silent.
After a moment—
"Elder is wise."
They landed before a secluded courtyard on Guest Peak.
Steward Han had been waiting. At the sight of Murong Xueli and a strange youth, his face drained.
"Miss! Why bring an outsider—"
"He isn't an outsider," Murong Xueli said calmly.
"He can save my father."
Han froze.
Jiang Muchen stepped forward, bowed deeply, smiling with perfect sincerity.
"This junior, Jiang Muchen, greets Steward Han. I have never forgotten your lifesaving kindness in Blackwind Cavern."
He produced a small porcelain bottle.
"Clear-Heart Balm, refined from Shadow Moss. It eases anxiety and calms the mind. Steward has worked tirelessly—perhaps it may help."
Han: "..."
Before he could respond, Jiang Muchen naturally supported his arm like a dutiful junior.
"Steward, the wind is strong. Let us speak inside. I still wish to consult you on some finer points of the Ice-Soul Pill substitution…"
The movement was smooth.
The tone earnest.
Earnest enough that even a seasoned family steward couldn't fault it.
Murong Xueli watched, a trace of appreciation flickering in her icy eyes.
She knew it was an act.
But it was an act so shameless, so sincere, so impossible to refuse—
It was a talent.
After all, in all these years, he was the first person she'd ever chosen to bring back herself.
(Outside, the night deepened. Far off, toward Shattered Star Mining Zone, a dark red glow pulsed faintly—like a dormant beast opening its eye.)
The Creed of Deference
When you wrap another's deepest need in your own obsession with repayment,
the transaction changes flavor.
She will think she is giving alms—
never realizing the straw she grasps was already tied to a line.